In The End It Was You
by Amaya Ramiel
Summary: "How many times did you try to kill yourself?" John flinched slightly, "Too many times," he whispered. "It doesn't matter, it's not relevant anymore." Sherlock felt a chill go through him at John's words. H/C oneshot, rated T for mentions of suicide.


Disclaimer: The Powers That Be, namely Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss, own the rights.

A/N: Sorry for being away for so long but research and personal stuff have made it difficult to find time to write, although I do have several 'in-progress' one shots I hope to finish during the next month or before. I'll probably upload another story today as well, so I'm happy and I hope you're happy too ^_^. You're reviews have fed the bunnies and may they continue to feed and breed.

* * *

In The End It Was You

The first thing Sherlock noticed as he came into the room was John standing with a look of frozen terror in the middle of their living room. The second thing he noticed was that John's gaze was fixed on the television. Some film Sherlock didn't know was playing; the image on the screen was of some distraught man holding a gun to his temple yelling to convince himself to pull the trigger. It was obviously one of those daytime drama films Mrs. Hudson liked to watch and which John occasionally watched when there was nothing better on.

Sherlock switched his eyes from the television back to the doctor, noting his stiff slightly shaking frame, the tremor running through his left hand and the shortness of breath. But the thing that struck Sherlock the most was the look of fear in John's eyes that held him glued to the scene on the screen. It was as though somehow John was both far away and intricately linked to the events in the film.

"John?"

The detective received no response from the soldier, and Sherlock wondered whether he'd even heard him.

"John?" he repeated louder, drawing nearer to the smaller man so that now he could see the dilated pupils and the tears that filled the man's eyes.

Sherlock felt a chill go through him; looking at John in this state felt like he was invading the soldier's private nightmares, as though he was witnessing something he wasn't meant to discover.

His catatonic friend didn't show any signs of having heard him. Sherlock quickly looked around for the remote control, and spying it on the table rapidly crossed the room, retrieved it and promptly turned off the television set.

It was like he'd suddenly hit the play button on John.

The doctor came out of himself in an instant with a start, looking about the room with confusion at first.

"Sherlock?" The words came out of his mouth in a croak, his clenched throat and rapid breathing chocking the sounds before they came out. John cleared his throat and tried to control his breathing.

"What the hell? I… I was watching that."

Sherlock eyed the doctor for a few seconds before turning around and folding himself into his chair adopting his thinking position. He regarded John again before asking, "How many times?"

John's eyes widened fractionally, suddenly afraid of how much the detective had deduced.

"W-what are you talking about?" he frowned and tried to keep his voice steady.

"How many times did you try to kill yourself?"

John's sharp breath intake was the only outward sign he gave.

"I-I don't-"

"Please John, don't insult my intelligence."

John stood still and silent for several seconds, the only movement coming from the intermittent tremors in his left hand.

"It doesn't matter." He finally whispered.

"Clearly it does, otherwise it would not affect you like this."

John's eyes locked with the detectives, a look of almost pleading reflected in them.

"It doesn't matter because it's not relevant anymore. It was a bad time, but I'm better."

Sherlock's gaze drifted pointedly to the television and back to John.

"That was just… memories."

Sherlock continued to hold John's gaze, making the doctor fidget uncomfortably. Sighing, the ex-soldier crossed the room and sat opposite the genius.

"What do you want to know?"

"How many times?"

John flinched slightly and his eyes closed of their own accord.

"Too many times." He whispered, "Almost… every day for two months." He added even softer, his voice full of shame. "I'd… wake up every morning from a nightmare to an empty room. I didn't have anything to look forward to, no prospects, no hope… just… nothing." John had dropped his gaze as he started speaking, but now he looked up at Sherlock, almost defying him to mock him and tell him how much of an idiot he'd been. "I'd sit up and take the gun out of my bedside drawer, hold it to my head and tell myself to stop being a coward and just do it. I'd look at all the faces of the people I couldn't save, look at the grinning face of the bastard who shot me, think of what a useless lump of space I was and try to find a way to gather up the courage to pull the damned trigger."

Sherlock felt another cold shiver run through him as John described how close he'd come to blasting his brains out. The thought that he might have never met the doctor, that he might have never learned what it was to have a friend suddenly scared him.

"You do know you're wrong, right?"

John kept his eyes on Sherlock for a couple of seconds, not detecting any trace of dishonesty in his face before shrugging and lowering his gaze.

"Yeah, I suppose so." John's answer sent another cold wave through the detective.

"You still think about it." Sherlock's habit of stating questions instead of asking them should have grated on John's nerves, but he couldn't deny the truth in his words.

"Sometimes…" he swallowed reflexively, "But I haven't tried it since after our first case."

Through sheer force of will Sherlock stopped himself from flinching, although his heart gave a start at John's confession.

"You tried it here?" Sherlock's whispered question was so soft John almost doubted having heard it.

Nodding hesitantly, John explained, "I… couldn't find a job,… I kept seeing the cabbie's face in my dreams in addition to the war,… my sister kept calling me drunk every night telling me what a lousy brother I was for not giving her money, … and.. I didn't know you very well yet."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he read the meaning in John's words.

"I hurt you."

"You didn't know… and now I know better."

All the times Sherlock had mocked John and his efforts at keeping his blog, mocked him every time he came back home from another failed job interview, mocked him for his frustrations with his credit card and the obnoxious self-serve machines at Tesco, mocked his efforts at cleaning and cooking, mocked his intelligence, the detective had been utterly unaware of how much it hurt John. Sherlock had belittled John, and if he remembered correctly, had on several occasions made comments along the line of 'How useless it was to be so average.' The detective felt like strangling himself for being so stupid. How could he not have noticed that his roommate was suicidal? What would have happened if… no, the thought was too horrible to consider.

"I'm a genius, I should have known."

John laughed mirthlessly under his breath. "And I should have known not to let it get to me. It was only one time anyways."

Suddenly Sherlock felt angry at John's dismissiveness of his own feelings. Normally he would applaud the dismissal of feelings, but in this case it wasn't so much that John got rid of them, but that he seemed to regard them as worthless; as though the fact that he was hurt was pointless. Somehow, Sherlock found this idea very wrong. Anyone and everyone else in the world he didn't care for, but this was John; kind, brave, strong, brilliant John; the person who brought him out of his own misery, who constantly chastised those who called him a freak, who continually tried to care for him even though he was always ungrateful, who time and time again offered encouraging words and told him how brilliant he was, who shot the cabbie and offered to blow himself up to save him from Moriarty, who was his conscience and his friend, this was the person he'd almost driven to put a bullet through his head.

"I'm sorry." Fewer words that held such honesty had ever crossed Sherlock's lips.

John stared at Sherlock and smiled sadly, he could have told the detective that he had nothing to be sorry about, or that it didn't matter, or that it was too late for apologies. Instead he smiled, a sense of wellbeing and comfort surging through him.

"Thank you." There was little else he could say.

The two stayed in silence for a few minutes before Sherlock broke it with another soft spoken question.

"Do you still think about it?" The detective was still affected by the images his mind had conjured of different possibilities; a different history.

"No, I told you, not since the beginning. That" – John waves his hand over at the television – "was just like.. a flashback.. a memory of where I had been. You saved me from that."

"I? I almost caused you to do it." He snapped back, for once ashamed of himself. John's influence on him had caused him to become empathic and grow a conscience, and he now felt the weight of it.

"At first only, but then, I realized you didn't mean it… and you gave me a new purpose…You taught me I wasn't as worthless as I thought, otherwise you wouldn't keep me around, or welcome my input in cases. I'm not an idiot, Sherlock, and you're not the only person who can read people. At first I was too caught up in myself to see it, but when I did, I realized how much I had to live for thanks to you."

"You saved me too, you know." Sherlock whispered.

"I know." John grinned softly. "People like us, Sherlock, we've been through crap and seen enough evil to last a lifetime. But maybe, knowing someone cares and thinks you're worth saving is enough. So don't worry, I don't plan on using my gun for any other purpose than saving your sorry ass."

John offered Sherlock a small smile and the detective returned it. "You'd better not, I'd be lost without my blogger after all."

The End

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, let me know what you thought of it ^_^.


End file.
